


Dead Ones

by Missverbivore



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Ezra - Freeform, Gen, Original Character(s), Paul - Freeform, Zombies, dead ones, tom hiddleston - Freeform, walking dead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:37:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missverbivore/pseuds/Missverbivore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezra and Paul are immune. Initially captured by the CDC and taken to a secret facility in Maine, they are now in the Maine wilderness trying to stay alive while facing the growing numbers of Cognitive Ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction ever. Well, it's not actually fanfiction but original work but inspired by The Walking dead.  
> The reason I titled it "Dead Ones" is because the zombies in mine are a little creepier being that they are slightly cognitive, like in "I Am Legend".  
> The character Paul is physically based off of Tom Hiddleston.  
> While Ezra is based off of myself when I was at my thinnest (and, yes, I do know how to shoot old-school weapons.) but is way smarter and, obviously, stronger. Alter ego basically. ;-)  
> Eventually I will have drawings of the characters, like a comic slide, along with the story. 
> 
>  

From my home outside of Austin, My family and I had traveled one-thousand miles to Georgia.  
I like to think of the time-line, but it has holes, like the part about why I am in Maine. I hate thinking about those things. In reality, my family and I were on the run, like most, and when we entered Georgia, seeking help from the CDC, all Hell broke loose. We didn't know we should fear the CDC not seek it. Or, I should have. The CDC saw me bitten by a Dead One and not change. They saw that I was immune. They captured my family and me. Then killed my family while I watched in another room and then took me to a secret facility in Maine. A _testing_ facility.  
Over the course of four months, I was subjected to tests that no living creature should endure. What I and the CDC found out was that I was absolutely immune and had more abilities that the average human but nothing that was extreme. Psychically: My healing rate was forty percent faster than normal, strength capabilities of a man, twenty percent more endurance than the average athletic woman, and very strong hearing. Mentally: I learn thirty-eight percent faster than the top average, long memory and quick recall. Sometimes while I was in recovery after a test, I would catch bits of what people were saying.

“She's like a computer!”

“Do you see the way she watches? She just _sits there_ , no expression.”

“I have never seen anyone who has her strength. It's _disturbing_.”

“I think the disease is increasing her abilities. I don't know what Dr. Anderson is thinking.”

“They say they found _another_ like her. Male, though, and older. Early thirties.” “The older subject” they called him is Paul. When Paul and I saw each other in a brief room switch, I screamed that I was like him. I was an Immune. The shock on his face told me all I needed to know. He was not ignorant as to what he was. During the next month, I focused all thought to escape and stealing any information on the zombie disease and any others for information. It worked. I practically crippled them and I didn't feel sorry for it because from what I learned, they weren't trying for a mass cure. Just enough for them, the superior ten survivors of the CDC. In my escape, I managed to take a nice microscope, hundreds of slides, books, scientist's notebooks, food, protection gear, my weapons and Paul.  
Paul's family was killed by Dead Ones early on and was found after the CDC began searching for others like me. Strange thing is, I am more advanced than Paul and we don't have a definite answer why, but Paul does have the above-average-human thing. Paul is a sweet guy, and silly, two traits I am thankful he has managed to keep throughout this hell. He is a very skilled fighter and he is lean muscled. Paul has a Louisiana accent, long blondish hair, blue eyes and six-foot-one. Any person we come across can tell we aren't related.

I was nineteen then, five-eight, long legs, brown hair past my waist, eyes a weird blue-green-gray. Then again, this is what you'd see if you saw me before my escape from the CDC. Now, I am twenty-one, look like some crazy, wild, forest woman but I prefer to blend in and remain alive than dress conventionally and die. Paul dresses in camo and not the full-on covered in mud, sticks, leaves and old animal skins like I do. We change how we cover ourselves for each season. I'm dressed in lighter colors but not so light that I couldn't blend into the ground or tree-tops.

 When I start to panic I recite things to myself. 

-I am immune.   
-I have Paul.   
-I am a fighter.   
-I drive horses.  
-I am alive. 


	2. Immune

Only a few noises could be heard by the human ear: The subtle breeze and the noise it made passing through the trees, distant thunder, and a few birds. However, if you were listening closely, you would hear a creaking. A creaking that could be mistaken as a rustling branch but was not a rustling branch—in fact, it was the string of an English Warbow.

 _A deer._ A small deer and I don't care, I have my the arrow locked in place but my footing is awkward. I have my left leg on one branch and right leg on another in front. The deer is a few yards away from me and below.

__

“Damn!” Paul whispers when he sees the kill. We keep voice level to a minimum and we avoid shouting.

It has become natural for us, even when we are as excited as we are now. We have food that isn't bark or bugs. “Do you think it is safe to make a fire? Dead Ones will smell it.” He asks.

“Deads will smell it no matter what. Might as well cook it before it starts stinking and before it starts getting dark." Paul stops inspecting the dear and starts a fire. Runs to the carriage and grabs grill-rack, putting it over the fire. He looks in the foraging bag and pulls out the dried spices and gets the salt from a leather pouch.

“Why didn't you tell me you were this hungry?” I say as I start to behead, gut and skin the dear. Trying to keep irritation out of my tone. Paul shrugs. “Paul. You tell me when you need food and I'll find it. You're not the only one who benefits or likes it, so don't feel guilty.” Paul hasn't mastered the other longbow I have and we avoid guns. All he has is two swords and my throwing knives. He's gotten very good with the throwing knives but they won't take down a deer, and rodents are hard to find. Swords? You don't exactly _charge_ a deer.

Paul fixes me with a look, a look that says to drop it. “I'm not going to.” I say.

“And I'm not stupid; I know it helps the group but you can't waste your energy on finding large animals when the Deads are eating them all. You could run into a heard. Not worth it. We have food now, so let's drop it.” Paul says.

“Fine. Here.” I pass him several pieces of meat to season and cook. “I will use this skin to make a few things for you.”

“What sort of tribal wear are you designing for us now, Wild Queen Ezra?” Paul teases. Oh, yeah. My name. Ezra. I forget it sometimes and I'm not sure what that means. Paul sees my brief confused expression and frowns.

“You forgot again, didn't you?” I nod. “Ezra,” Paul says firmly, “don't forget who you still are. I'm sorry that I don't have any answers for you—”

“Paul, don't apologize. I think I'm just becoming so focused on surviving that I forget myself. I don't think it is some horrible apocalyptic amnesia.” Paul smiles. A genuine Paul-smile. One that if this weren't the apocalypse, I would have had butterflies but instead, I feel happy. Paul hands me a plate with a big hunk of meat on it and then looks at me while I eat it.

“You know... out of all our raids, we should have thought of cutlery and maybe a stronger hairbrush. I mean, your hair has tripled in size.”

“Just the mud.” I say. Paul's eyebrows raise.

“Or the mats.” He shoots back.

“I don't have mats. Eat your food, skinny.” I chuckle as he glares. He was a fancy martial arts guy before and times have taken a toll on his physique. He hates it when I call him skinny.

Later, halfway through packing things up to move, Paul asks, “What are you going to do with the smaller bones?”

“Maybe I'll make forks and a hairbrush.” Paul slaps his hand over his mouth to muffle laughter.

“I'd love to see those.” He remarks as he stomps out the fire. I set to unhooking the horses. While we sleep, we have the horses loose because both Paul and I agree that it would be cruel to have them stuck in drive formation if Dead Ones came along.

The carriage isn't really a carriage. It is an old armored SWAT van that I outfitted to be driven by horses. When we told this to a few they asked what horses could possibly drive a SWAT van and I showed them: Draft horses. Two Clydesdale’s, two Belgians and a one very large Percheron. We told them that trying to find fuel in these times is a waste of effort. We have fuel but we use it to burn herds of Dead Ones.

With one foot in the van, I look at Beatrice, our female Clydesdale, and worry about her pregnancy. We have no way of telling if it was going well or not. She seems happy. Big but happy nonetheless.

“You shouldn't worry so much.” Paul says from inside the van, he was already in his sleeping bag. I hoist myself in the van and close the doors.

“What am I supposed to do? She is getting to the late stages of her pregnancy and we can't drive her then. Plus, I don't know how to birth a horse. What if there are complications? Then, if there aren't, how are we going to raise a _baby draft horse_?” Paul wiggles closer to me and puts a hand on my face, pushing back my hair.

“You are brilliant and I am smart. We will figure it out. You've done so much that I've never seen one person do. You can handle this but it isn't going to be just you, it's going to be us. I'm going to help you with this. You trained the dogs and horses. You deserve some help this round.” Paul kisses me on the forehead and says, “So relax on that front.” before sinking into his sleeping bag. I curl into my bag and close my eyes.

 


	3. Dreams

I am dreaming. Dreaming of when the scientists used to assault me. The things they would say. Assaulting me wasn't an easy thing to do. I could easily throw a grown man halfway across a room. They found a way around that, though: tranquilizers and steel restraints. Paul was in the cell next to mine and so he could hear everything. He would try to attack the glass that separated us but it was too thick.

I knew why they were assaulting me: figure out how strong I was mentally. They knew my physical strength and now they needed the other half of the puzzle. It was easy to figure out that not all of them were CDC scientists. Just a mix of twisted people.

I awoke with a start and try to shake off the words, “Never fucked a girl that looked like a super-model.” Super-model. I look into the dirty mirror we have and see a girl with protruding cheekbones, a small chin, narrow jaw, large lips, ski-slope nose and large, wild eyes. Not wild with fear but rage. I notice the rest of myself too. Skin and bones. My collarbone sticking out so much that they could hold things. My ribs easily showing yet I still managed to have large breasts. How? I hadn't the faintest. Genetics, my mom would always say. Just like my large hips, small waist and long legs. My waist had always been small but now? Now it only measured twenty-three inches. My arms aren't uber long, in fact, finger-tip to finger-tip it's sixty-inches.

Before everything, I had to have my bow custom made for my draw-length. One-hundred and seventy-five pound draw-weight at twenty-four inches. That is enough force to break through glass. At close range, my arrows will go straight through a skull.

 _Before everything,_ I think. The only reason I am surviving like I am is because my parents fed my desire for old-school weapons and wilderness survival. It's thanks to them I know what I know and have more no-ammo-needed-weapons than most. Tomahawks, throwing axes, _battle_ axes, throwing knives, daggers, and spears. The only ones that need ammo are the bows—war bow, horse bow and a short Mongol bow.

I am so lost in looking at my bow that I don't notice Paul watching me with look mingled with confusion and worry. I jump a little when I notice and he puts a hand on my shoulder.

“What is it this time?” He asks. I lay back down and let out a huff of air.

“Dreaming about the male scientists, what they did. Then remembering my family. I miss them so much. It's my fault.” With a glare Paul says,

“No. It wasn't. I need you to remember this: Your family _loved_ you. Do you think they'd want you to think like this? No, they wouldn't. They'd want you remember the good times and that no matter who you became, they'd still love you.”

“Paul, it is because of their love that they're dead. They wanted to find out why I was immune and...” I lose my ability to speak because the memory that comes is the worst one I have: Each of them being shot in the head while I screamed, unable to do _anything_.

“Stop. Do not think about it.” Paul snaps. He knows exactly what I am thinking because I have tears in my eyes. I look at Paul and take in his features. My mom would have loved to draw him. Under the sandy hair is a long face, a perfectly straight nose, high cheekbones, wide chin and a great jaw-line. I look back at his hair and notice that is really isn't blonde but red-blonde and curly, too.

“Okay, your stare is intense and creeping me out a little. What's up?” He asks.

“I have never really looked at you; my mother would have loved to draw you.”

“Your mother was an artist?” He prods. I have talked about my family since their death a grand total of four times and not in great detail.

“Yes, she was. She was amazing.”

“And...?” He asks hopefully.

“She was a chef, gardener, and worked harder than most and could make you laugh so hard you think you'd vomit.” I was about to say more when we heard the horses moving and nervously. Paul and I were up in a second, weapons in hand.

Along the sides of the van, we had made narrow windows. More peep-holes than windows and without saying a word, we went to either sides of the van and looked. What I saw sent shivers down my spine: A Dead Ones staring at the van. Just standing there and staring at it but it was the way that they were staring that truly scared me. Focused. Intently. These weren't the mindless kind, oh no, these were cognitive. Pack-like. They worked as a team to bring down prey. What also struck me as odd was that normally, mindless or cognitive, the always went for the horses. Never before had they stood there.

I turn around to look at Paul and he has the same look of horror I know I have. We're surrounded by Cognitives.

“Paul.” I whisper. He turns and I can see fear. We may be immune to bites but we aren't immune to being ripped apart or fatal wounds. A pack this large—four on one side and, taking a glance through Paul's side, four on the other—is almost suicide to confront. Yet we have no other option because the horses are not in their driving reins which eliminates running.

“We have to.” He breathes. He knows my thoughts, once again, too well. Then Paul's eyes become filled with terror and their focused behind me. I whirl around and see that one of the larger Cognitives has managed to look through the peep-hole. Its staring at me. Then, without warning, a sword pierces its head. “We might as well get started. Fuckers are getting bold.” Paul grunts. 


End file.
